


Moments of Introspection

by Callsign_Spin



Category: Lockwood & Co. - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Teenage Dorks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:01:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24622858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callsign_Spin/pseuds/Callsign_Spin
Summary: Character progression is a journey. Thoughts are the vehicle. Conversations reflect the results.Throughout Lockwood & Co., Lucy and Lockwood learn and grow. Their perspectives change, as does their relationship with each other. These are the off-page musings, introspections, and conversations that help them become who they are at the end of the series.Alternatively, just some teenagers who don’t know how to deal with and communicate their emotions trying to make sense of their lives.
Relationships: Lucy Carlyle & Anthony Lockwood, Lucy Carlyle/Anthony Lockwood
Comments: 37
Kudos: 45





	1. The Accidental Arson

**Author's Note:**

> I recently finished the Lockwood & Co. series, and I have to say it kind-of drove me up the wall (in a mostly enjoyable sort of way) because of all the awkward, lovesick teenager nonsense. As Lucy and Lockwood get more and more smitten with each other, realistically they’d spend some time privately freaking out and overthinking things because they don’t really know how to deal with and communicate feelings (awkward teenagers, lol). This is my attempt to put some of that “off-screen” material into words. This particular chapter takes place early in book one, after Lucy and Lockwood’s magnificent accidental arson.
> 
> I may continue this, writing from Lucy and/or Lockwood’s perspective at different milestones in their relationship. If I do, it’ll be slow since I’m currently rereading the books in my spare time. I’d like to try to keep these more or less consistent with their characters, including their motivations and levels of awareness at various points in their story.
> 
> I take no responsibility for any pain experienced as a result of reading my drivel.

Lucy:

I lay on my bed in my tiny attic bedroom, eyes locked on the ceiling. I was supposed to be sleeping after the nightmare night we’d lived through, and soon enough I would be; I was far too tired and sore all over to lie awake forever. But for now, I lie contemplating the events of the previous night, finally riding into the end of my surge of adrenaline. This case had been an unequivocal disaster. Lockwood and I had nearly died, and we had managed to burn down most of our client’s house in the process. There were going to be some serious repercussions for that, we all knew, though we had a silent agreement to not discuss that for the time being. 

I sighed.

Our first mistake had been going to the house without knowing its history. George had been at the Archives discovering the identity of our ghost when Lockwood and I had gone ahead to the house without him. It was stupid of us. George had been so cross with us when we’d gotten back, looking rather like a pressure cooker ready to explode. That was impressive for George, who tended to show very few outward signs of emotion. He was right though; you should never enter a haunted property without some idea of its history.

The next major mistake we’d made was forgetting the chains. It had been Lockwood’s job to ensure they’d been packed, and he’d forgotten. I’d just assumed he’d taken care of it, which was stupid. _Check and re-check your equipment_ —I could almost see the Fittes Manual in front of me, chastising me. I groaned in embarrassment at my own carelessness, covering my eyes with my arms.

Lastly, we should have left when it became clear that we didn’t understand the nature of the haunting, being improperly equipped as we were. I blamed myself for this error, as I’d talked Lockwood into it (although I felt it worth noting that I hadn’t had to work very hard to do it). We’d stayed out of desperation, really, knowing that we’d be taken off the case if we didn’t get the job done that night. We _had_ needed the money—badly so—and that had been our rationale in staying. How could we have known we’d end up starting the bloody house on fire?

I turned over restlessly on the bed, my eyes roving across the wall. We’d been exceptionally stupid, but I didn’t have the energy to think about that any more at the moment. No, I had something else in mind: my infuriating employer.

Lockwood was a charming—if somewhat manipulative—person by nature, and it was that charm that we had to thank for most of our business. Being around him sometimes felt a bit like being caught in the gravity of a star. It was a good thing too because without his pull, our little agency probably wouldn’t have lasted a week. In addition to his charisma, Lockwood had seemingly inexhaustible energy and drive when it came to containing the restless dead. Where that came from I had no idea, but sometimes it led him to do things that flew in the face of sense. That excitement, the glamour of it all, had been part of what had drawn me to Lockwood from the beginning, but it could also be maddening. I wouldn’t want anyone else by my side walking into a haunt, but I had to admit that sometimes Lockwood’s… _unusual_ approach compounded the risks.

And then there was Lockwood’s ability to say exactly the wrong thing and rile me up. His sharp tongue was often good for a laugh and he was generally good-natured with his wit, but he was occasionally a bit of an idiot as well. What was it he’d said last night? Something about my elevated sensitivities making me the “weak one”? _Hilarious_. I guffawed. Without my heightened Listening and Touch, we’d never have solved half our cases! The nerve of him!

In truth, I’d grown accustomed to both Lockwood’s subtle manipulations and his occasional nonsense. They were shockingly logical and almost endearing when you understood that he was just trying to keep the company alive and cope with the stresses of life as an agent. I knew he valued me as a member of the team, too. Yes, all three of us teased each other (even occasionally butting heads), but that was basically how we expressed that we cared.

But something in Lockwood’s behavior that night had been unusual and deeply disconcerted me.

I’d been shocked when George (enraged, at this point) told me that Lockwood had been ghost-touched. I hadn’t known. To be fair, it wasn’t until some time after our little tumble out the window and my trip to the hospital that I’d really been able to see and think clearly. I was pretty sure George was actually more mortified at the cost of our collective stupidity than he was angry with me for not knowing what had happened. But I _did_ feel bad that I hadn’t noticed it at all.

George had said that Lockwood had refused treatment for his ghost-touched arm until after I’d been found and attended to. That was what really mortified me. Apart from some cuts, bruises, and minor sprains, I’d gotten off lightly. Yes, our flight from the window had been dangerous, but it was a danger we had shared and survived together. Lockwood, on the other hand, had nearly died from a ghost-touch that I hadn’t even known he’d gotten. The idiot had delayed his treatment so I could get a few glorified Band-Aids and a sling put on first.

What an absolute prat. I’d seen his left arm when he’d walked through the door. Sure, it had been all bandaged up by then, but it was obviously swollen and very painful. George told me Lockwood said it’d turned _blue_ before he got his jab to stop the rot’s progression.

Anyway, what was really eating me was that Lockwood, practically half way to the grave himself, had been irrationally worried about my scrapes and bruises of all things. I felt my face grow red and hot with frustration. After I’d been the one to start the house on fire, if he’d gone and died, it would have been more than I could bear. And more, it would have been completely preventable. I did my best not to imagine what might have happened if the ambulance had arrived five or six minutes later. This thought was at the heart of my present agitation. Infuriating as he was, I couldn’t bear to imagine my life without Lockwood. Like a satellite without its planet, without Lockwood I felt sure I’d be lost, adrift without hope of finding my proper place in the world again.

Ugh, what was I thinking? That was stupid talk. Even to myself, I sounded like some kind of pathetic, lovesick puppy. I shook myself out of it. I would _not_ be so sappy. Clearly my lack of sleep and the stress of the previous night were taking their toll on me. There would be time to finish processing everything that had happened later. I took deep, slow breaths in and out to relax myself. With decreasing resistance, my mind quieted and I put the events of the last 24 hours in their own little box in my brain to be dealt with later, when I wasn’t so exhausted. I closed my eyes and blessedly, the commotion of life gradually gave way to the gentle tides of sleep.

Lockwood:

I’d always been a man of action. When I was on a case, the thrill of the chase driving me forward, I moved and fought and plunged forward toward resolution. When not on a case, I was dreaming of the excitement of the hunt. I was planning, figuring out ways to pull myself and this agency closer and closer to my goals. _Be the best agency in London. Contain the restless dead. Make sure nobody else loses a mother, father, brother, sister to the senseless chaos of the problem. Redeem myself._

When I was frustrated, confused, or feeling particularly inundated by memories of my past, I’d be in the basement with Joe and Esmeralda, practicing my fencing forms and perfecting ever more complex warding knots. As a man of action, this was how I worked through the torrents of memory and thought that I felt ill-equipped to handle. Emotions could make life hard, if you let them. Acting, working, and sweating somehow forced them back into proportion. 

I’d really like to be down practicing in the basement right now, and if it weren’t for my bandaged left arm, currently resting in a sling, that’s where I’d be. I doubted I’d be able to fence properly without my left arm behind me for counterbalance. No, blundering around like that, I’d probably just put someone’s eye out. Soon my arm would heal and I’d be able to get back to my beloved outlet, but for now I’d have to be patient.

I was trapped with my thoughts for the time being. 

I lounged on the couch in the library, ostensibly reading one of my gossip magazines. In fact, I was contemplating the previous night’s misadventures. I should be sleeping, but there was no way that was going to happen with my current state of mind. I was too amped up, too tense. But why?

It was hard for me to pinpoint the cause of my anxieties. I supposed that was the result of spending my fifteen years of life up to this point avoiding introspection. But that was partially an excuse. It was hard to admit it to myself, but I _did_ have an idea of the source. 

For the past six months, I’d had a growing _something_ making a ruckus in the back of my mind. It had begun when I met Lucy, surprised at her impressive abilities. Yes, she’d lied about her qualifications, but her talents were remarkably strong, and she really did have more field experience than most. She was competent, capable of making her own decisions without an adult looking over her shoulder. She was also strong and independent, able to hold her own in our little trio, despite the fact that George and I were already established friends and had our own peculiar workflow. In short, Lucy Carlyle was remarkable. 

Last night, I’d been worried—irrationally so—that we’d lose her. The memory flashed unbidden in front of my eyes for the hundredth time. I stood in that window again, left forearm on fire with pain but paradoxically cold as ice, watching her fall as if in slow motion. I reached for her, my hand closing on thin air, and fell off-balance myself, tumbling out the window behind her. All I could think in that moment was that if only one of us could have a bush to land on, I wanted it to be Lucy. 

Of course, there had been plenty of overgrown bush for the both of us. Lucy had passed out in the landing, but I remained hazily aware of just how _long_ it seemed to be taking DEPRAC and their first responders to arrive at the scene of our fire. I’d been in shock and feeling considerable pain from my arm, but somehow my own welfare seemed unimportant compared to the health and safety of the girl next to me. Lucy Carlyle, normally so feisty and robust, had seemed delicate to me in that moment.

And I’d been the idiot who’d almost gotten her killed by forgetting our chains.

Back in the present once again, I felt my face flush with shame. I sat up, flipping the pillow behind me to the cool side and then fell back on it. I took a deep breath, forcing my brain to slow its deluge of worries. 

Everything had turned out all right. I’d ensured Lucy was seen to first, and she was already home from the hospital, sleeping upstairs. I should really take a leaf out of her book and get some sleep while it was still early; there would be a host of bureaucratic nightmares for me to wade through later today. House fires tended to make both clients and DEPRAC especially irate. I’d need all my charms to stave them and their packs of lawyers off.

 _Lucy is a good friend and a valuable member of our team_ , I told myself. _It’s only natural to be worried when your friends are in danger_. An awkward question came to mind. _Would I have been quite so worried if it had been George who’d fallen out a window with me instead of Lucy?_ I fidgeted uncomfortably. I’d have been worried, yes, but not to the point of completely ignoring my ghost-touched arm until his cuts and bruises had been looked at. I blushed in embarrassment, which only served to embarrass me further. If it weren’t for the fact that it would have been quite undignified, I might have squirmed.

What was _wrong_ with me?

I’d had enough of this introspection for one morning. Deciding that the ritual of making tea would help me relax and clear my mind, I crept quietly to the kitchen. I was right. Minutes later, hot tea in my belly, I yawned and found that the idea of sleep in a warm bed now sounded perfectly irresistible. I fell asleep almost as my head hit the pillow and dreamt of excitement, flashing rapiers, and a dazzling smile framed between chestnut locks of hair. I got some restful sleep after all.


	2. Combe Carey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, friends! Against all odds, I’m back! This chapter takes place after our heroes return from Combe Carey Hall but before their celebration a week later.
> 
> Last chapter was quite friendly to those who may not have finished all the books yet. This one is not, as it discusses details pertaining to our dear cinnamon roll Lockwood that aren’t revealed until later in the series. While I suspect anyone reading here is likely to have read all the books already, I still felt it best to warn that if you haven’t, you may want to save this for later.
> 
> Since Lucy’s first person narration bookends this point in time, and since she has yet to learn about Lockwood’s past, I think we more or less know what she’s thinking at this point. In light of that, I chose to focus purely on Lockwood this chapter.
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy this chapter and that its dubiousness doesn’t make you too violently ill.

Anthony Lockwood lie in his bed well into the afternoon, still enjoying the freedom to just melt into his mattress. He stretched out as long as he could, yawning, and reveled in the softness of his blankets. He had absolutely no responsibilities whatsoever to attend to. That was entirely on purpose. He figured he and his team deserved some time to rest and decompress after what they’d been through at Combe Carey. 

Still, Lockwood couldn’t help thinking. The last week had been a rollercoaster of fluctuating fortune and emotion, and he was still overwhelmed at all that had transpired. The events of their perilous night at Combe Carey Hall had shaken him, but they’d helped him come to terms with a few things as well. For the millionth time, he thought about all the perils they’d avoided and also of how his haunted past had, for a brief moment, collided violently with his present.

Correction: his _very_ haunted past.

Lockwood would never forget his parents. They’d had a loving, wonderful family right up until the night he’d looked out the window and seen their ghosts standing in the garden. He remembered the cold shock and terror he’d felt at the realization that he’d never get to see his parents again - at least not alive.

He’d taken to looking out the window every night to see if they’d return again. He’d even occasionally snuck around the house late at night, armed with a flashlight and his old iron mobile, to try and catch them appearing. Just one more look was all he’d wanted; a final farewell, a little closure. He never got it. When he’d begun his agent’s training years later, he’d learned that those who returned from the realm of the dead were able to do so because of their powerful attachment to something left in the living world. A prized possession, a place, a secret stash of money, or—often—their own body. 

Well, the reason why Donald and Celia Lockwood had never come back again was clear then; Lockwood had no doubt that what they’d loved more than anything else in the world had been each other. 

No, Lockwood could never forget his parents. But over the years, he’d probably spent even more time remembering his sister than he’d spent remembering them. She’d followed his parents to the next life when he’d been nine. 

It was then that Lockwood had begun his agent’s training with Gravedigger Sykes. He learned quickly that when people returned, they were never the same as they had been in life, and sometimes they came back twisted and vengeful. The first thing he’d done when he’d returned to 35 Portland Row for the first time after Jess’ passing had been to fill her room with iron and lavender, ensuring she’d never come back there. He wanted to remember Jess as she’d been in life, not as a possibly violent shadow of herself. It wouldn’t stop her from haunting his memories though. 

Lockwood remembered how Jess had taken care of him after their parents had died. He remembered how she’d gone out of her way to make his favorite meals, the way she’d tucked him in to bed at night, how she’d usually worn her long, brown hair down. 

It hadn’t always been so long. Two and a half years or so before she’d died, it had been about the length of Lucy’s hair.

So it was that at Combe Carey Hall, when Lucy had gently brushed the ash off his face and woke him after that massive flare had knocked him out, he’d seen not Lucy, but Jess. 

_Oh_ , he’d thought. _I’ve died_.

For a second, he’d felt overwhelmingly numb, but that was swiftly followed by a wave of peace. He’d finally be reunited with his family; if he was honest, that was an omnipresent, aching desire for him. To see his parents and sister again at long last... 

A wave of regret and worry had hit him then. Had Lucy and George survived the blast? If he’d doomed them by insisting on taking this job despite what he knew, by underestimating Fairfax’s conniving, he’d have had a hard time living with himself going forward. 

_Living with myself? I’m dead_ , he’d thought wryly. He’d have to figure out a new way to frame that. 

Unsure what he should say, he’d instead waited for Jess to speak, to help him up and lead him to whatever awaited him in the great beyond. 

“Hi, Lockwood...” It was an anxious voice that definitely wasn’t Jessica’s. 

He’d started, blinking the dust out of his eyes. _Lucy_?

Suddenly aware that everything hurt, Lockwood had inhaled deeply and felt his head clear with the influx of oxygen. _I’m alive_? He’d felt his breath catch as he became aware of the pain in his temple and the blood that matted his hair there. _Yeowch_! On the bright side, he hadn’t felt concussed.

“Oh... Lucy.” He coughed and wriggled, trying in vain to sit up. Feeling lightheaded, he relaxed again. “Lucy. For a moment I thought you were...” He cut himself off before he could say _my dead sister_. “It doesn’t matter. How _are_ you Lucy? You’re okay?”

She’d answered that she was fine, and he’d done his best to recoup quickly from his rather shocking little hallucination. With the knowledge that she and George were alive (and well enough for a little snarky banter, to boot), Lockwood felt his purpose, his _drive_ return. The pain of being separated from his biological family lessened in the presence of his new family; he was glad to be alive again. He’d started planning how they’d make their escape, and, as usual, the whole thing went to pot. Thanks to Lucy’s intuition, they’d made it out alive anyway. 

Lockwood couldn’t help but wonder how they’d been so lucky. More to the point, how had Lucy known that Annie Ward wouldn’t harm them?

_Lucy Carlyle is amazing_ , he thought not for the first time that day. He smiled, bemused. He’d always known it, but Lucy just kept exceeding his expectations. There had been that time with the ghost under the willow tree where she’d just _known_ things, _impossible_ things about the deceased man’s life. He could only assume Lucy heard them with her Listening. _What a remarkable talent_!

_Lucy_ … He remembered how he’d felt when he’d seen her walk toward that horrible well in Combe Carey Hall. Each step had deepened his dread. His chest had tightened, his muscles strained. As a rule, Lockwood didn’t let himself panic, but he’d come awfully close to it then. He couldn’t lose Lucy; he _wouldn’t_. _No. No, Lucy. That’s not the way it’s going to be_ , he’d told her. He’d held her tight as he’d dragged her away from the well. Thankfully, she’d snapped out of it. He honestly wasn’t sure what he’d have done if she hadn’t. Jump in after her, probably. He was glad it hadn’t come to that. The world was just a brighter place with Lucy Carlyle in it.

Lockwood had felt something other than relief to have Lucy safe in his arms that night. He flushed a little at the recollection. He’d felt _alive_ , a peculiar warmth coursing through him. It wasn’t an altogether unfamiliar sensation. He’d sometimes get little bits of it when Lucy laughed or smiled at him in that disarming, endearing way of hers. When they brushed arms in the library. It was awkward, and yet it wasn’t; it was warm and soft. What he’d felt at Combe Carey had been stronger than those little tastes. He wondered, if they hadn’t been in such peril, how much harder it would have been to let go of her.

It was an odd thought, not the sort he usually entertained, and yet he couldn’t help but concede that being near Lucy just felt _right_. He was probably going mad. 

_I can’t ever act on that, not in a million years. Just imagine what George would say! He’d never let me live it down_! Lockwood grinned wryly. Not to mention _Lucy_ , who was—if possible—even more gifted at pushing Lockwood’s buttons when teasing him than George. He shook his head, an amused smile on his face at the thought.

It was funny how his thoughts about Lucy had changed so much in such a short period of time. Two weeks ago, he’d been unwilling to admit any of this to himself. Perhaps nearly dying twice in one night was enough to change anyone’s perspective. He still didn’t know exactly what to name these feelings and certainly wasn’t prepared to act on them—it would be entirely improper—but neither would he continue pretending to himself that they didn’t exist. 

With that resolution came a sense of peace. Maybe he’d ought to try being honest with himself more often.

Lockwood stretched again and rolled onto his side. His warm bed and blankets were still nearly irresistible, but he felt a pang of hunger. The idea that he might meet a certain _someone_ having a late lunch spurred him to rise. Walking leisurely toward the kitchen, he heard the sound of a kettle and grinned to himself. All was right in the world.


	3. Rapiers and Resolve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! In writing this chapter, I discovered something kind-of funny. It feels far more natural for me to write Lucy from an “I” perspective, whereas it bothers me to do that with Lockwood. Maybe it’s because Lucy narrates in the first person in the books and Lockwood doesn’t? Anyway, I just decided to roll with it. Hopefully the chapter reads well despite that. Have you ever had anything similar in your writing experience?
> 
> This chapter is set early in book two. I did borrow some dialogue from the book for part of the chapter—that’s something I try not to do too much of, but I think you’ll enjoy what I’ve done with it.
> 
> On a completely different subject, I think something like the Problem would absolutely be reflected in popular music. I started thinking the other day about how songs in our world might have been written differently in a world where the Problem exists. I included some snippets in this chapter. They really are only snippets, as I don’t want to incur anyone’s wrath, but hopefully you’ll get a kick out of them anyway. I thought they were rather clever.
> 
> This was a very long note, so thanks if you’ve made it this far. As always, I hope this chapter is enjoyable, and thanks for reading!

Lockwood:

Lockwood turned the knob for the hot water in the shower and, as his routine dictated, gave the water flowing from the showerhead time to heat up. Almost as an afterthought, he turned the dial on the radio sitting on the edge of the sink before he got in. The station it was tuned to was very popular with agents. Music had always reflected the times, and these days there were plenty of songs covering some aspect or other of the problem. Some were dark while others were ridiculously romanticized, and of course there were songs at every conceivable point in between those two extremes. Lockwood didn’t often listen to this station as it sometimes brought unpleasant memories to mind, but he was in a strangely good mood this morning. An old tune with a catchy melody he recognized came on the radio, and Lockwood found himself humming along.

_There's a café on a small Thames quay_  
_And it feeds two hundred guests a day_  
_Lonely agents while their time away_  
_And chat about their ghosts_

The warm water and pleasant music provided an excellent backdrop for contemplating life. Their performance at Wimbledon last night had been dismal, to say the least, and Lockwood had spent the better part of the morning working out his frustrations with Joe and Esmeralda in the basement. George had even joined him for part of the morning, which just went to show how frustrated he’d been by the last evening’s debacle. George didn’t often practice fencing—or, indeed, engage in voluntary exercise of any sort—but running into Kipps had clearly set him off enough that whacking a dummy with a sword (and probably imagining it was Kipps he was hitting) was magically transformed into a desirable outlet. Lockwood was similarly annoyed at Kipps; he’d been a special kind of prat, and privately, Lockwood thought another stab to his backside wouldn’t go amiss. 

_Sandy wears a simple chain_  
_Made of purest silver from an English vein_  
_A pendant that bears the name_  
_Of a boy that Sandy loved_

When Lucy came down to the basement bearing Swiss rolls and tea, Lockwood had persuaded her to try out some new rapiers he’d ordered before eating. He’d even broken out his most inviting smile for the occasion. He’d been remembering how Lucy had fallen backward onto George the previous night while trying to fend off a ghost. They’d been securely holed up in their iron chains, so thankfully the danger from Lucy’s advancing type two had been averted. Still, Lockwood was acutely aware that had circumstances been different, Lucy’s rusty rapier skills might have gotten her into trouble. He refused to let that happen. He was determined that next time, she’d be better prepared. 

When Lucy’s simple warding knot had threatened to throw her off balance, Lockwood had seized his opportunity. He’d used his right hand to adjust her wrist and his left hand to adjust her waist, thereby improving her stance. Their closeness had filled him with that warmth he’d first acknowledged after Combe Carey. He’d been glad in the moment that Lucy, her back to him, couldn’t see him blush. He was sure George had noticed, though. Lockwood figured George was probably either thoroughly amused or annoyed to no end by his behavior, but trying to tell which it was felt a bit like trying to figure out how a rock felt about the day’s weather. 

_Actually, the rock might be more expressive_ , Lockwood thought, chuckling to himself.

Where had he been before he’d gone off on that tangent? Oh, yes, _Lucy_. Lockwood smiled wryly to himself. If he was honest, he’d kind-of been hoping for an excuse to touch her this morning. Well, perhaps it was more accurate to say that he’d gone out of his way to _engineer_ an excuse. It wasn’t something he’d normally do, but because of his exercise, he’d been riding an endorphin high that made anything seem possible. And indeed, Lucy hadn’t objected, despite going a little stiff and answering his subsequent question with one syllable. Feeling free to entertain this unusual line of thought beneath the wonderfully warm water pounding on his scalp, Lockwood wondered for a second if maybe he’d gotten Lucy just a little flustered. _No way_. He smiled wistfully at the absurdity of the notion. _Lucy, flustered?_ Marissa Fittes’ musty, old corpse would rise from the grave before that would happen. The song on the radio was just starting its bridge.

_Sandy used to watch his eyes_  
_When he told his agent’s stories_  
_She could see his sword spell ghosts’ demise_  
_She felt his gallant glory_

When he’d showed Lucy a more complex warding knot she might employ against a tricky type two, Lucy had expressed doubt in her ability to learn it. This had saddened Lockwood; whatever Lucy might think, Lockwood knew she was capable of improving her skills. If Lucy was anything, she was persistent, and she wasn’t afraid to work hard; given time, Lockwood was sure she could learn to do anything. 

The song on the radio came to an end almost too soon (Lockwood had quite enjoyed that one) and another famous number came on. This one was a little less upbeat, but Lockwood nodded his head in rhythm with it as he washed nonetheless.

_She packed my things for burning up_  
_Furnace appointment two PM_  
_And I’m gonna be six feet under by then_

_I wonder why Lucy doesn’t believe in herself_ … Whatever the reason, Lockwood wouldn’t give up on her. He’d offered to “take her through the positions” of his Kuriashi turn sometime, and as soon as the words came out of his mouth, he’d been embarrassed at how another person might interpret that invitation. He actually blushed at the recollection. Luckily, Lucy hadn’t seemed to notice his accidental innuendo. George had evidently had enough of watching Lockwood struggle by that point though, so he’d called them both over to have some breakfast.

Over Swiss rolls and tea, they’d discussed the various evils of the Fittes adult supervisors, and more particularly, Kipps. Lockwood had corrected Lucy when she’d said Kipps must really hate the three of them; Lockwood knew Kipps didn’t give a fig about Lucy or George. No; somehow, he was still sore over how Lockwood had beaten him in that fencing tournament years ago. Of course, he hadn’t told Lucy that straightaway—that would have been _boring_. Instead, he acted puzzled and suggested that Kipps might be jealous of anything from his boyish charm to his excellent companions (he’d smiled as flirtatiously as he could at Lucy when he’d said that part). George, of course, had immediately spoiled his fun and ruined his carefully cultivated air of mystery by letting the cat out of the bag posthaste. The radio tune hit its chorus, and Lockwood couldn’t help but mouth the lyrics. _Everyone_ knew this song.

_And I think it’s gonna be a real long time_  
_’Til death brings her out here to me to find_  
_I’m not the shade they think I am at home_  
_Oh, no no no; I’m a poltergeist_  
_Poltergeist! Hurlin’ things, I don’t feel so alone_

So Lockwood had ended up telling Lucy the story of his first fencing tournament after all. It wasn’t something he’d planned on. Dodging questions and keeping people at a distance was reflexive for him—it made it easier when you lost them later—so it surprised him when it actually felt _good_ to tell Lucy something about his past. It felt like he didn’t need to spend quite so much of his energy being the Lockwood he’d invented to keep the world at arm’s length anymore. Not in front of Lucy, anyway. It was both liberating and terrifying.

Of course, he wasn’t willing to drop all his defenses, especially since part of him still wasn’t convinced he should have told Lucy as much as he had. Lockwood had drawn the line when Lucy had asked if he’d won the tournament. That was when he’d run off to get a shower. _Besides_ , he thought, _it’d be no fun if I revealed all my secrets in one go. I’d lose all my enigmatic charm_. It’d been hard work building up all that mystique, too. He couldn’t just ditch it now; it would do irreversible damage to his image _and_ his entire marketing strategy.

He finished washing and stepped out of the shower to dry off. Soon, he was dressed in his usual attire, his hair still wet but neatly combed. He flicked the radio off on his way out the door.

Lockwood cheerfully made his way through the house, looking for Lucy and George. He’d snagged Penelope Fittes’ party invitation from where he’d set it down in his room, excited to show it to them. He eventually heard both their voices coming from the direction of the office. He was about to step inside when he realized they were talking about him. What were they saying? He stopped and listened. A small part of his brain told him this was a bad idea, but his curiosity won out in the end. Unfortunately, his good mood wasn’t to last much longer.

“Don’t you ever wonder about Lockwood’s door upstairs? The one on the landing.” It was Lucy’s voice. Lockwood suppressed a twinge of annoyance at her single-minded fascination with that room.

“No.” This time it was George speaking.

“You must.” From the tone of her voice, Lucy clearly wasn’t buying George’s answer. Lockwood wasn’t either, but he appreciated George’s token effort to put the subject to rest nonetheless.

George exhaled in a huff. “Of course I wonder. But it’s his business. Not ours.” _Good man_. Lockwood made a mental note not to tease George quite as harshly in the future.

“I mean, what can be in there? He’s just so touchy about it. I asked him about it last week, and he nearly snapped my head off again.”

Lockwood winced a little at that. It was true, he’d been rather harsh on Lucy on that occasion, and he did feel bad for it. Belatedly, it occurred to him that had he been a little less extreme in his response, Lucy’s curiosity about Jess’ old room might not have grown so strong. _On the other hand_ , he thought, _I absolutely can’t have either of them poking around in there. It’s important they know how serious of a matter it is_. If anything happened to them because they’d ignored his instructions, it would be the end of him. This was true both because he’d never forgive himself and because DEPRAC would never let him off the hook. George’s reply cut off his train of thought there. 

“Which probably tells you that it’s best to forget all about it. This isn’t our house, and if Lockwood wants to keep something private, then that’s entirely up to him. I’d drop it, if I were you.”

_Yes, George gets it_ , Lockwood thought. Why couldn’t Lucy accept it as well? Lockwood might have given George a pay raise just for that answer, if there had been any money to do so.

“I just think it’s a pity that he’s so secretive. It’s a shame.” Lucy again.

“Oh, come on. You love all that mystery about him. Just like you love that pensive, far-off look he does sometimes, as if he’s brooding about important matters, or contemplating a tricky bowel movement.” 

Lockwood just about fell over in shock. _What?! Why, that cheeky scoundrel! I’ve never made such a face in my life! The nerve of him!_ Indignant, Lockwood decided he’d been wrong before. George definitely did _not_ deserve a raise.

George cut in again. “Don’t try to deny it. _I_ know.”

Lucy’s reply was terse and annoyed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

George’s tone just about matched Lucy’s. “Nothing.”

Lucy gave an exasperated sigh. “All I’m saying is that it’s not right the way he keeps everything to himself. I mean, we’re his friends, aren’t we?” Lockwood decided he’d heard enough. He stepped through the door. “He should open up to us. It makes me think that—“

Lockwood cut her off. “Think what, Lucy?” Lucy spun and met his eyes, flushing immediately. Lockwood held her gaze. He suppressed his own guilt for being so harsh with her; he didn’t want her to resent him, but he also couldn’t afford to have her challenging his authority on this. Lucy backed down, looking more than a little embarrassed. 

Lockwood did what he’d come to do in the first place and showed them the Fittes invitation. Lucy was bewildered at why exactly they’d received the prestigious invitation while George seemed to view it as more of an insult (he hated the Fittes crowd and generally considered anyone associated with them to be pretentious gits). In the end, Lockwood convinced them both to attend with him, despite George’s insistence that he’d rather spend the evening with a Pale Stench.

They’d just started an argument about George’s “scholarly” habits (Lockwood thought they were mostly just creepy and irresponsible) when the doorbell buzzed. Their conversation-turned-argument had at least distracted Lockwood from what he’d overheard earlier; now he just wished he’d taken five minutes longer in the shower and missed the exchange altogether. He’d been having such a good morning, too. 

It was a relief to have no more time to ruminate on it. It was time to be the charming, enterprising Anthony Lockwood he’d invented for the world. Wearing a large (if not entirely felt) grin, he pulled the door open to welcome their guests.

Lucy:

Saunders and Joplin had just left out the front door. I was pleased that we had what looked to be an interesting case lined up for the evening, but I was tired after my rollercoaster of a morning as well. I picked up the tray that had held the tea and Swiss rolls we’d served to our new clients and carted it off to the kitchen to wash things up. Lockwood and George would be making preparations for tonight’s job, so if I was lucky, I’d have some time to myself. I ran hot water in the kitchen sink.

I was still annoyed at how bloody uptight Lockwood got if anyone so much as glanced at the closed room on the landing. We’d been friends and colleagues for a whole year, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to share any of his really significant history with us. It was a bit like pulling teeth to get even the most inconsequential of details out of him. Take that fencing competition in which he’d injured Kipps. We’d been working together for a year and had run into Kipps several times during that period, and only _today_ did I hear why he was out for Lockwood’s blood. George seemed to know a little more than I did, but even he was clueless when it came to Lockwood’s mysteriously absent family. The sink filled up and I got to work on the morning’s dishes. With my frustration fueling my scrubbing, they’d surely be the cleanest they’d been in years by the time I was done with them.

Almost as infuriating as Lockwood’s insistence at keeping George and me at a distance was his temperamental nature. Lockwood could go from being hot to icy cold at a moment’s notice. I reckoned that if he was determined to keep us at arm’s length, he could at least be consistently warm with us. Icy Lockwood only served to remind us that he’d apparently decided we couldn’t be trusted with any details of his life more personal than the identity of his favorite color.

This morning had been a great demonstration of how temperamental he could be. We’d been having a grand time in the rapier room, Lockwood all smiles and willingness to help me improve my swordplay. I was actually caught off-guard by how warm and friendly he’d been. _And how_ close _he’d been_ , I thought. Not that I’d minded; it hadn’t been unpleasant, just unexpected. I’d been a little dumbfounded in the moment (I hoped I hadn’t come off as an idiot), but in retrospect I was sure he didn’t really _mean_ anything by it. That was just how Lockwood was. Anyway, not an hour later, his eyes threatened murder when he caught me talking to George about the room on the landing.

The thing was, I wanted to be Lockwood’s friend. I wanted to be there for him. When things got tough, I wanted to be the person he relied upon. I wanted it because when I’d eventually opened up to Lockwood about my own complicated past, he’d been understanding and kind. He’d actually listened—and I was _pretty_ sure—cared. He’d been, in short, exactly the kind of friend I’d needed. Whether he knew it or not, in so doing, he’d created a bond between us. It was the type of bond that should go two ways, if only he’d stop blocking my half of the road. 

I sighed. I wanted to know his story so I could better understand him, too. The way he acted sometimes, it was clear that _something_ was wrong. When we weren’t working or training, he moped and sulked because he didn’t actually have any hobbies. It was like all he cared about was work. I didn’t know what had happened to him to make him act that way, but I was sure it was probably something awful. If the stupid boy would just open up and let me into his real life a little, maybe—just maybe—he’d find the same kind of comfort in my friendship that I’d found in his.

I shook my head, rather at my wit’s end. Having finished washing and rinsing all the dishes, I’d started drying them with a rag. I decided right then and there that I wouldn’t give up on Lockwood; he might act like he wanted to be left alone, but I wasn’t buying it. He might eventually let his guard down for me, or he might not, but I wouldn’t abandon him to his loneliness. After all, for all my flaws, he hadn’t written me off.

The dishes clean, dry, and put back in their respective cupboards, I left the kitchen. We wouldn’t be leaving to go to Kensal Green Cemetery until nearly dusk, so I had a few hours to rest up and prepare. As I passed the landing on my way up to my room, I glanced at the forbidden door. No matter what was in there, I’d be Lockwood’s friend when he needed me.


	4. Brotherly Advice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all. For your reference, this chapter takes place shortly after the Wintergarden case in book 3 (the one where Lucy nearly falls to her death). 
> 
> This was a pretty fun chapter to write. I’ve long thought that nothing got past George in the books. This chapter is my idea of what it might have looked like if Lockwood and George took a little time to have some real talk.
> 
> I hope it’s coherent and enjoyable! Thanks for reading! :)

I knocked on the door to George’s room and waited awkwardly in the hall for him to answer, shifting my weight from foot to foot and trying to ignore the way that Holly’s bandaging job pulled on my hair. I was embarrassed to admit it, but I had some questions about what exactly was happening in our little company; there were some things that just weren’t adding up for me. Hopefully George could help shed some light on a few things.

“Coming,” came George’s call from inside, and a moment later he poked his head out and looked at me.

“Are you wearing pants?” I asked, immediately suspicious since most of George was hidden behind the door.

“Of course I am!” George came fully into view, fully clothed. I heaved a sigh of relief and said a prayer of gratitude in my mind for the preservation of my eyes. “Anyway, what do you want? Didn’t I tell you to stay in bed today?” His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Yes, and I have.” George raised his eyebrows skeptically. “Mostly,” I conceded. “Only, I could really use your help just now.” I looked at him pleadingly, hoping he could see I was being serious.

“Well, as it happens, I’m rather busy researching at the moment,” George said, annoyed. I coughed and hummed urgently and he sighed. “Fine. Come in, then.” He motioned me into his room and closed the door behind us. “Have a seat, if you like.”

Exactly where I was meant to have a seat, I couldn’t tell. Nearly every square inch of George’s floor and bed were covered by laundry, used plates, mountains of papers, or some combination of the above. This was because he’d refused to let Holly actually tidy inside his room, though that was probably just as well since I doubted whether she’d ever come back to work again if she ever took a proper look around in here. 

Seeing my hesitation, George swiped some clothes off the foot of his bed. He offered no explanation as to whether they’d been clean or dirty, and I didn’t ask. I tried not to pay too much attention to the condition of the comforter he’d exposed as I sat. George sat on a smaller pile at the head of the bed.

“Well? What seems to be the problem?” George prompted.

“What on earth is going on with Lucy?” I blurted out. “She’s been impossible ever since we hired Holly, and I can’t figure out why. Obviously, they don’t get along as well as might be desired, but it’s not just that. It’s spilling over into her work, too. Lucy knows we’re not trying to replace her or anything, right? I’m really at my wit’s end here.” It felt good to get all that off my chest.

George looked at me in roughly the same manner as you might look at a goldfish that kept trying to swim, only to repeatedly hit its head on the side of the bowl. Well, that made me feel just _great_. 

“Don’t give me that look,” I protested.

“Do I really have to spell this out for you?” George couldn’t have sounded less impressed if he’d tried.

“Don’t talk to me like I haven’t got a brain, George,” I complained. “That’s not fair. I’m just a little perplexed at the moment, which is why I came here.”

“Alright, alright. Don’t have kittens. I just never expected to be in this situation. I’m introverted and I spend most of my time researching. You’re an extrovert. Though I suppose this is only natural considering how you’ve spent the last six years bottling up and ignoring all your emotions…” I cut George off with a sharp look. 

George picked up again without hesitation. “Well, you were at least right to connect Lucy’s behavior with our hiring Holly, although I guarantee it’s got absolutely nothing to do with Lucy thinking we’re replacing her. She’s not that daft.”

I let out a tired sigh. “I didn’t really expect she’d think that either, but I didn’t know what else to believe. I don’t think there’s anything to dislike about Holly. She’s been nothing but efficient and polite to all of us, she’s an excellent assistant, and she’s not bad in the field, either. She even saved Lucy’s life.”

“Yeah, and she’s gotten rather a lot of attention and praise for all that, hasn’t she?” 

“So what, Lucy’s jealous of Holly’s abilities? Of a few encouraging words?” I was bewildered. Lucy had never been one to act like her worth was diminished just because of someone else’s success. Surely she _had_ to know her abilities as an agent were unparalleled and that our hired help couldn’t change that.

George had procured a donut from some pile or other and was taking bites of it between talking. I was trying not to think about how long it might have been there. When he caught me staring, he offered me one as well. I politely refused, feeling rather like I’d just dodged a bullet. 

“Oh, Lucy’s jealous alright. Not of Holly’s ability though, or even our general appreciation of her efforts. It’s more to do with how you’ve practically been doting on Holly ever since she arrived.”

“Well of course I have. I’ve been trying to help her feel at home here. I’d also like to point out that if Lucy wasn’t so icy to her, I wouldn’t have to dote nearly so much.”

George had polished off his first donut and was now starting on a second. Considering all the crumbs he was generating, it was a miracle his room wasn’t infested with pests. Of course, with all the piles everywhere, maybe I just couldn’t see them. It was hard work to keep from squirming at the thought.

“ _I_ know your motivations are pure, but I imagine it must look a little different to Lucy. Think about it, Lockwood. We hired an absolutely gorgeous perfectionist of a girl while Lucy was out of town, and you’ve been ranting and raving about her ever since. Add to that how you’ve lately been passive aggressively punishing Lucy for not instantly liking Holly and telling her off for experimenting with her talent—“

I cut George off there. “for endangering herself as well as potentially _the whole team_ , I think you mean—“

“Yes, yes. Anyway, I’ll get to the point. To Lucy, it probably looks like you’re throwing her overboard to crush on Holly, and that’s turned her world upside down. She’s head over heels for you, Lockwood. She always has been.” George crossed his arms, speaking like it was the plainest truth in the world.

I was stunned; I didn’t have an answer for that. _Could Lucy really fancy me?_

My disbelief must have showed on my face because George busted up laughing. “You didn’t know? Oh, wow, this is rich. You’re even more oblivious than I thought! Please tell me you’ve at least realized that you’ve got it as bad for her as she has for you?”

I could feel my blood rushing to my cheeks. “I’ve never said anything about fancying Lucy,” I protested. This was true; it wouldn’t have been professional, for one. Secondly, I’d only recently come to understand my feelings for her in that way. To top it all off, I’d been pretty sure it couldn’t amount to anything anyway. I’d had no concrete reason to think Lucy was interested in me beyond the scope of friendship. Not until now.

George very nearly fell off the bed laughing. “You didn’t have to say it! Anybody with eyes, ears, and half a brain could tell!” It was rare to see George so expressive. Under the circumstances, I didn’t know whether to be impressed or offended.

Well, great. If George was to be believed, Lucy had, at least at one point, been interested in me, but _now_ she probably thought I fancied Holly. This revelation didn’t excuse Lucy’s open hostility to Holly, but it _did_ explain a lot.

Did I still have a chance with Lucy? _Could_ I?

I was silent for a long moment, deliberating. My mind had turned to a darker subject. _Was this something I could share with George?_ But then the question burning in my mind burst as if of its own will from my mouth. “George, do you believe that I’m cursed?” This was such a private anxiety of mine. Under normal circumstances, I’d never bring it up. I supposed I’d already been disgustingly vulnerable with George today though, so what was a little more?

Having lost my parents and my sister so early, I quickly learned that life was chaotic. There was no rhyme or reason to the misfortune that befell us. Of course, not everyone believed that. After Jess died, some of the more sensational media outlets had suggested that I was cursed. Kipps had taunted me about it from time to time. On my darkest days, when the loss of my family weighed heaviest on my heart, it was easy to believe that I was destined to lose anyone I ever grew close to. I’d never expressed this fear to anyone before.

George squeezed my arm. His face was kind and resolute. “No, Lockwood. No, I don’t believe that, and neither should you.”

“Everyone I ever loved, George. They’re all gone.” My voice shook.

“I don’t know why these things happen, Lockwood. But what I do know is that Lucy and I care about you, and we’re not going to leave you alone. Lucy, especially. She really is mad for you, you know.” I’d been looking down, and when I lifted my eyes, I caught a glimpse of one of George’s rare smiles.

He was right, of course—I had to believe it. And then, even if I was cursed, I wasn’t powerless. I could protect Lucy. I’d do _anything_ to keep her safe. Now, if only I could put things right.

“What do I do, George?”

George looked thoughtful. “Well, first you should probably forgive her for almost dying at the Wintergarden house. Maybe back off a little on the reprimands. You’ve been telling her off rather a lot—“

“I refuse to stand by while she’s in danger of getting herself killed, George!”

“I know, and I’m not saying you should. Just be a little gentler, okay? Try to forgive her. It’s getting pretty obvious that you’re holding it against her.” 

It was true: I was having a hard time getting over how I’d almost lost Lucy. I wasn’t quite ready to drop that just yet, though. It was still too easy to envision how things might have played out differently, and when those thoughts hit me, it was hard to cope. 

The corner of George’s mouth quirked upward drolly. “Also, maybe don’t lend Holly any of your old sweaters again.”

I blushed again, embarrassed. At the time, it had been a practical solution to Holly’s need for clothing suitable for fieldwork on such short notice. In hindsight, it was mostly just stupid; there had to have been better options that wouldn’t have exacerbated things.

“And one last thing,” George continued, looking apologetic as a doctor charged with telling a new mother that her baby has two heads. “You _are_ eventually going to have to tell her how you feel. It doesn’t need to be today, next week, or even in the next six months. But if you don’t want to lose her, you’re eventually going to have to bite the bullet and do it.”

The thought of it was about enough to give me a heart attack. _What would I even say?_ But George was right; it didn’t have to be done right now. I’d have time to work it out.

“Thanks, George.” I said, meeting his eyes. “You’re a good friend.”

“Bloody right, I am,” he said, a smug smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Feeling better now?”

“Definitely.” It was true. He’d shown me that my problems had solutions after all. I still had some things to work through, but I already felt almost like a new man. I got to my feet.

“… So I still have my job?” George asked sardonically.

I chuckled at his wit, then stared him directly in the eyes, trying my best to look deadly serious. “Only if you swear never to reveal a word of this conversation to anyone.”

George’s mock offended expression reminded me of the wolf that pretended to look hurt upon being accused of eating a sheep. “You wound me! I’m the soul of discretion, you know.” In a flash, the usual brusque George was back. “Now get out and let me get on with my research.” He got up and opened the door for me. After shooing me out, he wasted no time in slamming the door shut behind me. I shook my head and couldn’t help but smile wryly. _What a charmer._

I entered my own room and returned to lying down like I’d been for most of the morning. I reflected; it wasn’t easy to forgive Lucy for nearly dying, but I’d get there eventually. If nothing else, the experience of seeing her hanging from that banister had taught me that I’d do whatever it took to keep Lucy Carlyle safe, and that realization had power.

I’d done some stupid things lately, but George believed (and now, so did I), that there was still hope. That last bright thought echoed in my mind as I fell into a deep, restful sleep.


	5. The Split

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! This chapter takes starts immediately after book three, when Lucy’s just announced she’s leaving Lockwood & Co. There’s a time skip, and then the last portion takes place just before good ol’ Penelope gives Lockwood an excuse to contact Lucy to work together (so toward the beginning of book four).
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter, and thanks for reading!

“And that’s why I’ve made up my mind the way I have, and why I’m resigning at once from Lockwood and Co.”

In that moment, my world shattered. I saw the cracks webbing out in front of me, and then the weight of Lucy’s last sentence threatened to crush me. How could she leave us? How could she leave _me_? Didn’t the agency, the camaraderie we’d built mean anything to her? Didn’t _I_? I gritted my teeth.

George tried to break through the ice that had just gripped us all by making a silly remark about how he couldn’t enjoy our cake now. It didn’t work. I sat, tense, avoiding eye contact with everyone until I couldn’t take it anymore. _No. There_ had _to be a way to work through this. We could talk, could figure something out_. I stood up, turned to Lucy, and looked her straight in the eye.

“Come walk with me, Lucy.”

It wasn’t an invitation, and Lucy knew it. She rose and, keeping a comfortable distance between us, followed me to the door. In the kitchen, George and Holly were apparently motionless with shock. We put on our coats and I opened the door. Neither of us spoke until we were well down the street and the house—or more particularly, the windows of the house—were out of view. George and Holly had evidently pulled themselves together because they’d been trying to look casual and innocent while their eyes followed us from the windows. 

I broke the silence. “What’s all this really about, Lucy?” 

Lucy walked briskly, her eyes locked in front of her. “I told you, my Talent is out of control, and I refuse to endanger the three of you.”

So she was sticking to that story, then? Maybe I could bring her around to my point of view.

“That’s rubbish and you know it. You’re fully capable of controlling your Talent. You’re one of the best agents in London! Do you make mistakes sometimes? Yes, but so do we all.” We reached the gate to the local park and walked through. It was empty except for an old couple reminiscing on a bench and a girl walking a small creature that looked more like a marshmallow than a dog. That was good; it gave us a private place to talk. We slowed our pace, meandered, and eventually stopped under a tree. 

Lucy’s retort was ready. “And what about what happened in Aickmere’s? Two people normally couldn’t supply that much power to a poltergeist. I know it, and so do you. My Talent amplified it somehow, and you all nearly died because I couldn’t control myself.”

She met my eyes. Was it just me, or were hers watering just a little? My heart ached. Maybe I could reassure her. “But we didn’t die. And really, the poltergeist situation turned out for the best, didn’t it? If it weren’t for your Talent, we’d never have found the old prison and stopped whoever was experimenting down there. The Chelsea outbreak would still be happening. People would still displaced from their homes, more agents dying every night. The fact that they’re not? That’s all thanks to you, Luce.”

“But—“ 

“No buts, Luce. I trust you. George and Holly trust you. Not one of us is perfect, but we support each other. That’s how our team works. We can support you while you figure this out!” I put on my most optimistic, encouraging grin. “And you _will_ figure it out. We believe in you, Luce.” Most of all, I thought, _I_ believe in you. 

Lucy’s eyes scoured the ground. “And if you’re wrong? Do you know what it would do to me if one of you got hurt because I lost control?”

As team leader, I was usually the one who had to deal with this kind of worry. I knew from experience that it was a heavy load to bear. I reached out to hold Lucy’s arms in my hands. “Nothing worse than what it would do to us if _you_ were hurt. Besides, as a team, we take risks for one another because we care about each other. That’s what we do! We always have each other’s backs. You know that, Luce.”

Lucy pulled away from me, frowning. “I can’t let you take those risks anymore.” She turned to study the tree next to us.

A light bulb came on in my mind. On a hunch I asked, “Does this have something to do with what I said in the prison?”

Lucy’s only reply was the way she blanched at the mention.

“It does, doesn’t it? Well, I said it then, and I’ll say it again; I’d die before I’d let anything happen to you, Lucy. You can’t change that, and I won’t pretend it’s not so.”

Lucy spun, eyes full of desperation. Suddenly, we were nearer to each other than we’d been all morning. If only it were under happier circumstances, I might be able to enjoy her proximity. As it was, her closeness made it impossible to miss the haunted look to her eyes. “No! Don’t you see? It would destroy me if you died!”

I was touched by the fire—the passion—in her voice. Tenderly, quietly, I answered. “And _I’d_ be torn apart if _you_ died, Luce.” 

“I won’t let you sacrifice yourself for me. My leaving takes away the option. I have to go.” It was barely a whisper.

We stood there for a while, quiet. Lucy looked like she might cry, and while I might have hid my emotions more effectively than she, I didn’t feel any better. I hated the train of logic she was following, but Lucy was stubborn. She wouldn’t be dissuaded. She shivered in the cold morning air. The pragmatic side of my brain kicked into gear. I could at least fix _that_.

“Let’s go somewhere to warm up and have some tea, okay?”

Lucy nodded and we walked to the café just down the street. Once there, we settled into a cozy booth and it was no time at all before we had tea set in front of us. Neither of us could bring ourselves to touch it.

“What will you do?” I finally broke the silence between us. I still didn’t like it, but if Lucy really had to leave, I wanted to make sure she’d at least be able to get by. “Apply at another agency?”

“No. You know I’d chafe under a supervisor. I’ll have to go freelance.” Lucy fidgeted with a teaspoon.

My heart sunk. Not only was Lucy leaving us, but she wouldn’t even have a proper team to back her up. “Where will you live?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t looked at anything yet, obviously. There are tons of small flats around, though. Those should be affordable enough.”

A sudden idea struck me. I dared to hope, and it crept into my voice. “You could stay with us, you know. It would be like before, except you’d pay me rent. I’d give you a good rate. We wouldn’t bother you about cases or anything, and—“

Lucy cut me off, sad but firm. “No, Lockwood. I can’t stay. We both know I’d get pulled back into the agency, and I’ve made my decision.” I felt a familiar numbness. 

“There’s nothing I can do to change your mind?” 

Lucy’s expression was so mournful, it seemed to me that the whole café went quiet around us. “Nothing.”

My heart was being rent in two within my chest. The pain was staggering. “What if I asked you as a friend to stay?” My last dregs of hope and desperation formed themselves into a coherent plea. I’d wanted to say, ‘to stay for _me_ ’, but I couldn’t. Now wasn’t the time for a confession; emotions were already high and the circumstances were all wrong. Besides, I hadn’t had time to work out what to say.

Lucy’s eyes were watery again and her voice shook. “Please don’t, Lockwood. This is hard enough for me as it is.”

Seeing her so obviously suffering, something deep in me snapped. “Why do it then?! We have something good here, Luce. Why abandon it?” I continued, “if you’re so worried about our safety, think about it for a minute! We take risks every day, whether we go on jobs or not. Heck, one of us could be hit by a car on our way to Arif’s on pretty much any day of the week, and yet it hasn’t happened!” I clenched my fists on the table. “To _live_ is dangerous—we’ll all die someday! Don’t we at least deserve to choose with whom we spend what time we have?!”

I’d been rather louder than I’d intended, and several people in the neighboring booths were staring. So much for having a private conversation. In any case, Lucy wouldn’t look me in the eyes, and I couldn’t blame her. I hadn’t paused to think before I spoke, and I’d only made things worse as a result. I flushed with the shame of it. 

Lucy didn’t answer me for a long time. When she did, it was with such steely, emotionless resolve that all my remaining opposition vanished, leaving me hollow. “I’m sorry, Lockwood. I have to do this, and that’s really all there is to it.”

If Lucy wouldn’t confide in me, wouldn’t see reason, then I couldn’t help her. I left my heart behind in that booth as I stood, paid for the tea, and stormed off.

Four months later:

I was in the basement practicing with my rapier yet again. I’d been doing even more of that than usual for the last four months. I’d used to put in at least an hour most days. Now? If I had a free moment, odds were good I’d end up there. At least the hours upon hours of practice swordplay kept me sharp.

At present, Joe was nearly headless and Esmeralda’s lower half was more or less being held up by threads. I could probably find some time to repair them this afternoon. I found powerful motivation in the fact that if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have a dummy to practice on tomorrow. Now _that_ was a sobering thought.

Like always these days, if I was fencing, it was because I’d been thinking about Lucy again. Sometimes it annoyed me that her absence still bothered me so much. It wasn’t like she was _dead_ , after all. 

_No, she’s just gone, alone, living who-knows-where, hopefully making enough money to eat_ , I thought. I hit Joe especially hard, and a few bits of stuffing fell to the floor.

I’d relived our conversation from that terrible day, the day she quit, more times than I could count. Each time I came up with new ideas for how things might have been different. If only I’d done _this_ or said _that_ , she might have been persuaded to stay. Improbable and idiotic as they generally were, the ideas never stopped coming, and each one hit me like a brick to the face.

Over the course of weeks, I’d eventually decided that if I could go back in time, it was really Aickmere’s that I’d change. I’d come to the conclusion that the only way Lucy’s behavior added up was if the fetch she saw in the prison did or said something terrible to her. If I could have just found Lucy faster, stopped that vile spirit before it could hurt her… I shook myself. I was doing it again.

I hit Esmeralda three times in rapid succession, landing each hit with a satisfying _thwack_. It was pointless to think about these what-if scenarios, and yet I couldn’t stop. The thoughts came during the day and the night. They were especially loud when I was alone, lying in bed and trying to sleep. The number of times I’d been unable to sleep because my brain wouldn’t shut up about it had probably just about crossed from dangerous territory into flat out insanity. The only times the thoughts really relented were on cases and after the kind of workout that would render most people unable to get out of bed for a week. As far as today’s workout went, I reckoned I was about four fifths of the way there at present, which was good because I didn’t think Joe and Esmeralda could take much more.

I heard ringing from the office. _A phone call?_ I hadn’t even set my rapier down when the ringing stopped; George or Holly must be working in there. Well, they’d be able to handle whoever was calling. I turned back to the practice dummies. _Thwack, thwumph, thwack_. A moment later, George poked his head in.

“Lockwood, it’s for you.”

I wiped my brow but didn’t stop fencing. “What, difficult client? Can’t handle this one with your passive aggressive sarcasm, George?”

George rolled his eyes. “Actually, it’s Fittes.”

“Kipps calling again to remind us why we hate him?”

“No. When I said ‘Fittes’, I meant the woman herself. _Penelope_ Fittes.

“Oh.” I stopped dead. “Well, _that’s_ interesting. Any idea what she wants?”

“Some kind of joint project. You’d best hurry, Lockwood. She’s still on the line.”

I dropped my rapier and jogged to the office. It was funny, but as I went, I thought I felt change in the air, like the seasons were changing. Why not embrace it? Anything would be better than the rut I was stuck in at present. I felt a hint of my old energy return as I picked up the phone receiver, ready for whatever awaited me on the other end.


	6. Hopeful and Hopeless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! This chapter takes place pretty much immediately following the last chapter, so at the beginning of book four. 
> 
> Lockwood kinda can’t catch a break, poor thing! Luckily for him, that’ll all be changing soon. He just has to make it through this chapter first. :)
> 
> I hope this chapter is enjoyable, and as always, thank you for reading!

Penelope Fittes was one of those persons whose summons you just didn’t ignore. When she phoned, requesting our presence at a meeting that night, George, Holly and I promptly made ourselves available, postponing two cases to nights later in the week. We all scrubbed up for the occasion, and if it couldn’t quite be said that George dressed the part, at least Holly and I made up for it. Rapiers strapped to our waists, we’d hopped in a night cab. We weren’t much in wonder as to what the meeting could be about; the last three months, we’d received four referral cases from Ms. Fittes. These cases were always difficult, and their completion always brought Lockwood & Co. much acclaim. We weren’t entirely sure why she seemed so intently fixated on our company, but I for one wasn’t about to complain.

The meeting had been a short one. Ms. Fittes explained the essentials of the case; a tricky new haunting in a suburban neighborhood had just popped up. Several agencies had sent teams to try and neutralize the source; all had failed. By all accounts, the ghost only manifested by aural phenomena, which, Ms. Fittes told us, brought us to her condition for giving us the case.

At this point, I was starting to get a sinking feeling, and Ms. Fittes didn’t disappoint. Her one stipulation was that if we were to be given any further details and allowed to take the case, we’d have to get Lucy Carlyle, the best listener in London, on board. She’d looked at me pointedly. At that point, I’d more or less let my brain shut off in a last ditch effort to keep my annoyance from showing. Penelope Fittes or no, I didn’t think my employees past or present were any of her business. _Especially_ not Lucy. She’d had no right to look at me like that, like Lucy’s departure had been my fault. Holly, ever reliable, salvaged the meeting by telling Ms. Fittes that we’d certainly give it our best and get back to her, and then the others were struggling to keep up with me as I marched out of the building.

I was grateful for Holly and George; they were perceptive and patient with me despite how I’d spent the entire cab ride back stewing in the corner. Once back at 35 Portland Row, they wisely gave me space to think. At present, I was alone in the library, my legs draped over one arm of my favorite chair, my feet sockless, my shirtsleeves rolled up, and my collar unbuttoned. I spent a few minutes just breathing and staring out into space.

I hadn’t made much headway, but at least I’d been _trying_ to get over Lucy’s departure. I still thought of her daily, and I’d been relying heavily on physical exertion (rapier training, mainly, as evidenced by the current state of Joe and Esmeralda in the basement), to help me cope. I still felt like there was an aching, Lucy-shaped hole in my chest, but at least I was keeping busy and making great progress with the company. I’d come to a point where I almost felt like I could accept life as it was, could bear to carry on, still missing Lucy, but not crippled fatally by her absence.

Of course, that wasn’t true anymore. Whatever meager healing I’d achieved over the last four months had just been undone in a matter of minutes. The wound was wide open and enflamed again. Painful. For the second time in four months, I was left to try and put the pieces of my life back together alone.

The thing was, I was conflicted, and that made moving on difficult. It was stupid, really. Most of my brain sensibly agreed that there wasn’t a chance of convincing Lucy to work with us on this job, let alone what I really wanted—to get her back. But way deep down in the back of my head, there was a tiny piece of my brain that was excited by the offer we’d just been given. It was still hopeful. It wanted me to get up right now, at 10:30 at night, and run to Lucy’s apartment. It said that if only I could convince Lucy to work this one case with us, maybe she’d remember what she’d left behind at Lockwood & Co. Maybe she’d come back. I often wished I could squish that hopeful, hopeless part of my brain into oblivion.

My mind settled back in the present, and my thoughts wandered to tonight’s meeting again. I shook my head, angry. Did Fittes really expect me to throw my four months’ progress away just because she’d asked nicely? What would going and getting my hopes up, only to have them dashed again, accomplish?

I could have sat there, fuming at Fittes’ nerve all night, but I was interrupted by a timid knock on the library door. Well, I didn’t really _want_ to see anyone, but I supposed I’d better try to be professional, pleasant Lockwood anyway. I didn’t have the energy or the will to move, so I just called out. “Come in!”

I’d expected George, maybe coming to try and lure me out of my solitude by offering me tea and donuts, but it was Holly who walked through the door. She looked hesitant, standing just barely beyond the doorway. The sight of her looking so nervous snapped me out of my pity party. What was I doing? Life wasn’t just about _me_ and my problems; I had employees to look after too.

I managed to sit up and straighten myself out a bit. I ran a hand through my hair, trying to neaten it. “Oh, sorry, Hol, I wasn’t expecting you. What can I help you with?”

Holly mostly relaxed and stepped forward into the room. “Nothing, really. It’s just…” Holly paused and took a deep breath, meeting my gaze. “Are you doing all right, Lockwood? George and I are worried. We know the last four months haven’t been easy for you, and tonight obviously brought some difficult things to mind.”

Good old reliable Holly, getting straight to the heart of the matter. I supposed I’d better reassure her that I was through the worst of it and that I’d be back to normal soon. It was the decent thing to do. Settling myself with my elbows rested on my knees and my hands clasped, “Sit down, won’t you, Holly?” She sat across from me, looking neat, elegant, and still a little bit anxious. I continued, “You’re right, things have been hard, and tonight threw me off-balance for a bit. But I’m back in control, now. I’m sorry I worried you and George. It was irresponsible of me.”

“I’m glad to hear you’re thinking more clearly.” She smiled and continued, “But Lockwood, you should know it’s okay to be human. To struggle. We’ve all missed Lucy, but she meant the most to you. You’re allowed to grieve, you know? I hope you know George and I don’t think any less of you for it.” I couldn’t quite meet Holly’s eyes. “And as for Ms. Fittes, I thought the way she acted tonight was very wrong. She obviously knows Lucy’s absence is a sore subject, but she just ripped right into it anyway. It was very unprofessional of her.”

I sighed. I wasn’t particularly happy with Ms. Fittes at the moment either, but I doubted she’d meant to cause us any distress. “I imagine she thought she was just doing her job. Probably didn’t want to dance around the subject and thought it best to just get to the point. She’s the head of a big company. Her time is valuable, and all that.”

With her eyebrows tilted just so, Holly looked the picture of sympathy. “Well, that’s no excuse. She still could have been more sensitive about it.” Holly changed tack. “Anyway, George and I just want you to know that we’ll support you, whatever you decide to do. We’re the ones who make our success, not Ms. Fittes. We don’t need her charity.” Smiling kindly, she continued, “No matter what, we’ll stand by you, Lockwood.”

My eyes watered a tiny bit. Darned allergies. If Holly noticed, she didn’t show it. I wanted to put my wall back up, be that version of Lockwood that the world was familiar with, but I didn’t. Not entirely, at least. After a moment like that, it wouldn’t be right. My reply was subdued. “Thanks, Hol.”

Holly, apparently having said what she came to say and taking my thanks as her cue to leave, started getting up. Suddenly, I wasn’t ready to be alone again just yet, and I found that I actually wanted Holly’s advice. Usually I’d go to George for this sort of thing, but somehow it didn’t feel like he was what I needed tonight; George was a great friend and very astute, but he could be blunt and abrasive as well. Tonight I wanted the advice of someone a little gentler; someone with a feminine perspective.

I stopped her with a question. “What should I do, Holly? What would you do in my shoes?” I didn’t specify whether I meant about the case or Lucy, though I supposed that at this stage they were essentially the same thing. Holly seemed to understand what I was getting at though.

She sat back down and thought a moment before answering. “I think I’d at least try talking to her, Lockwood. Lucy and you, you have a connection; it was always plain to see, even for an outsider like I was at first. I don’t think that all can have vanished in just four months.”

Somewhere in my heart I knew her words rang true, but I was still anxious. Lucy had made the decision to leave for reasons I didn’t fully understand. What if going to talk to her backfired? Our last conversation hadn’t ended well, after all; would she even let me in her door? I condensed these concerns into a single question. “What if she doesn’t want to talk to me?”

Holly tilted her head thoughtfully. “I could be wrong, but I’ll bet Lucy’s probably had a difficult four months, too. Don’t underestimate the power of simply seeing a friendly face when you’ve been all on your own for a while. I’d be surprised if she refuses to at least hear you out.”

I was starting to feel a little better. The nearly paralyzing fear I’d experienced at the thought of visiting Lucy didn’t seem so powerful now. I wouldn’t know what her response to me would be until I went and spoke with her. It was worth the risk of being turned away if there was the possibility that she might be willing to accept the case. If she took one case with us and all went well, maybe she would be willing to work other cases with us from time to time. Maybe the odds were against it, but then again, maybe they weren’t. My hope shone like a beacon in my heart now that someone else who knew the situation had validated it. Now that the beacon was lit, everything seemed a little brighter. I found courage and willpower in that light.

Perhaps Holly could see the change happening inside me, because she smiled. “When do you think you’ll go?”

I was still nervous, but the dread I’d been drowning in was gone. “Sooner is probably better, or I’ll just overthink things. Might as well do it tomorrow.”

Holly nodded sagely. “I think that’s a good idea. You’ll be needing her new address, of course. I think I’ve got one of her cards down in the office. I’ll go get you a copy. It’ll be on your desk when you need it.” 

My chest swelled with gratitude for patient, prepared Holly. “Thanks, Hol,” I called as she left for the office. Pulling me out of my rut wasn’t in her job description, but Holly was up to the task anyway. Not for the first time, the thought struck me that we’d really lucked out in hiring her.

I rose, groaning, to my feet. Everything that I’d done today (my long workout in the rapier room, the day’s chores, tonight’s meeting, and the aftermath of said meeting) suddenly hit me like a ton of bricks. I was exhausted—physically, mentally, and emotionally. Well, at least I knew I wouldn’t have trouble sleeping tonight. That was a good thing, too. I wanted to be at my best when dropping in on Lucy tomorrow.

I made my way to my room and, on a whim, got my favorite tie out to wear the next day. Lucy had given it to me for Christmas. Maybe she’d notice my wearing it. I figured it would be a nice gesture.

I got ready for bed and flopped down on my sweet, sweet mattress. I just had time to think about how grateful I was for soft pillows and blankets, and then I was enfolded in dreamless sleep.

Come morning, I woke feeling miraculously rested. I ate a leisurely breakfast, got dressed (I did a fantastic job picking a suit to complement Lucy’s tie, if I did say so myself), and grabbed Lucy’s address from where Holly had left it on my desk the night before. I gave a cheerful wave to Holly and George on my way back through the kitchen. Holly, grinning, gave an encouraging little wave back. George just nodded slightly. Well, I supposed that was supportive enough of him in his own, uniquely George, way. Grabbing my coat, I took a deep breath. The agents’ mantra _‘never linger on a threshold’_ came to mind. It occurred to me that funnily enough, despite the fact that my current situation wasn’t anything like a haunting, the wisdom of the saying still applied. A wry smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. I stepped out the front door.

A short-ish cab ride later, I arrived at Lucy’s building. Climbing the stairs to the correct floor, I tried my best to suppress the mixture of excitement and anxiety threatening to overwhelm my stomach. Outside Lucy’s door, I tried not to pay too much attention to the bag of neatly folded… er… _laundry_ sitting on her doormat. Nudging it aside and refusing to blush, I gathered my courage, raised my fist, and knocked.


	7. The Train Ride Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place near the end of book four. The team has just left Aldbury Castle.
> 
> Parts of this chapter were harder to write for some reason, so hopefully it still reads okay. As always, thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

Lockwood:

I leaned back in my chair, head resting on the pane of the window beside me. Our train back to London had only just departed. After the trip we’d had, I couldn’t wait to be home.

Across from me, Lucy kept drifting off to sleep, only to jolt awake at some noise or the jostling of the train. I felt bad for her; she had to be at least as exhausted as I was. Luckily for us, we’d have no obligations to attend to once we were back at Portland Row. We’d all have the freedom to sleep as much as we needed.

The two of us were situated in a semi-private train compartment. There wasn’t a door, but the walls around us afforded a little insulation from the noise and attention of the other passengers. The other members of our team were situated elsewhere; George had found his own private corner so he could be alone with his theories, and Kipps and Holly were off somewhere, chatting. Holly hadn’t liked Kipps much at first (who could blame her?), but he’d apparently grown on her since we’d started working together more consistently. When George and I asked her about it, she’d said something boring about how it was nice to have another adult around to talk to. That seemed a bit ironic considering that George, Lucy, and I were each probably at least as mature as Kipps, if not more so, but I didn’t read too much into it.

I mulled over the events of the last few days for the millionth time. The things we’d discovered… Well, they were important. My gut told me that they were central to figuring out the Problem. I just didn’t understand how everything fit together within the broader picture yet. It was no matter though. Judging from the way George had spent all his free time the last two days staring off into space and scrawling notes into the little notebook he’d taken to carrying around with him, he’d probably have the whole puzzle solved within the week. Knowing George, he’d probably have corroborating research to boot.

My thoughts turned to Barnes and how he’d forcefully insisted we deny all knowledge of and involvement with the Rotwell incident. There were practical reasons for this, of course; it wouldn’t go down well for us if it became common knowledge that we’d basically killed Steve Rotwell and burned down his research facility. But to have Barnes refuse to listen to a word of what we’d seen? I got a funny feeling that he’d known for some time what Rotwell had been up to, but if that was true, why hadn’t DEPRAC stepped in? Surely this—the ghostly terrorization of an entire village (not to mention everyone affected by the related Chelsea outbreak several months prior)—was exactly the sort of activity that they existed to police. 

I thought back to a remark that Kipps had once made, something about the big agencies having a lot of power within DEPRAC. At the time, I’d brushed it off as Kipps’ typical, self-important blustering, but in the context of recent events, it explained a lot. The closer DEPRAC got to solving the Problem, the worse the long-term outlook would be for the agencies. It wasn’t too much of a stretch to suppose that perhaps the agencies were working within DEPRAC to protect their interests. 

If that were the case, was Barnes in on it? Somehow, I thought not. Despite his bristly personality and longstanding disdain for Lockwood & Co., I respected Barnes. There was a simple integrity to the man; I doubted he’d ever take part in any corrupt schemes. Frustrating as it had been to be unable to speak openly with him about what we’d seen at the Institute, he’d been doing his best to protect us. And of course, just because we’d been told not to talk to the press, that didn’t mean we couldn’t do some more quiet digging into things. Really, we weren’t ready to go to the press yet anyway. We’d wait until we had the evidence to do the job properly and expose the entire conspiracy to the public in one go.

My eyes flitted closed, and I ignored the unnatural, backlit forest scenery and the inky black, starless sky that seemed to be permanently printed on the back of my eyelids. Yes, we’d get to the bottom of things yet. Maybe with a little luck, we’d get the ball rolling to stop England’s 50-year-long collective nightmare. It was a lofty goal, and yet I felt that with our team, we might just stand a chance. There wasn’t anything we couldn’t do if we worked together. I felt a surge of pride.

So, yes; our trip to Aldbury Castle had turned out to be a terrific success both in terms of what we’d learned and what we were able to do to help the townspeople. But that wasn’t all that I had cause to celebrate. 

In one of the nearby compartments, somebody laughed. I lifted my eyelids just enough to peek at Lucy (it wouldn’t do to be caught staring). Eyes closed, mouth slightly open, hair untidily scrunched against her seat and the window, she was fast asleep. A small line of drool ran from the right corner of her mouth. I couldn’t hide my stupid grin. Even with the drool and the quiet snoring, to me, Lucy was a reminder of everything good in the world.

Our brief conversation in the iron circle, angry spirits raging around us, had cleared a lot of things up for me. I’d finally learned the whole truth behind Lucy’s departure, and she’d agreed to return to Lockwood & Co. The idea of working with Lucy again on a permanent basis had filled me with joyful energy in that moment, and I enjoyed that same feeling as I covertly watched her snoozing now.

Lucy was the only person I’d ever met who could really keep up with me when I was running at full intensity. Whatever I threw at her in those life-or-death situations, she would figure out a way to handle it. We definitely did our best work when we were together. In other ways too, I was increasingly convinced, we simply _belonged_ together.

The scenery outside the train window blurred past us in greens and blues; my thoughts flowed onward. It’d turned out to be a good thing that Lucy had ignored my order to leave the Rotwell Institute and chose to follow me instead. I didn’t know if I would have survived that little jaunt around the Other Side without her. My mind had been so sluggish. Toward the end, so had my body. Without her help, would I have realized what was going on before it was too late? Would I have had the willpower to resist the freezing, life-draining atmosphere of the Other Side? Privately, I doubted it. Most likely, I never would have re-emerged from that portal.

That was just one example of the saving influence Lucy had in my life. She’d left Lockwood & Co. to try and protect me from some dubious possible future, but in reality, her presence was the best protection she could give me. It gave me a reason to keep fighting. If that wasn’t enough, Lucy had physically saved me from death more times than I could count.

As I pondered the many reasons I was grateful for Lucy Carlyle, my eyes were drawn to the countryside going by in a blur outside my window. England really was a beautiful place when you weren’t being harassed by ghosts. Watching the scenery pass me by that day was almost hypnotic; I relaxed, all my loud thoughts quieting gradually until they were more like white noise in the back of my head than the demanding sirens they had been before.

I’d been staring out the window, thinking of nothing in particular for a few minutes when I was pulled back to earth by one of my favorite sounds—Lucy’s voice.

“How long was I out?” Sleepy and bleary-eyed, she yawned.

I grinned and looked at my watch. “Oh, half an hour, maybe. Sleep well?”

“Yeah, it took me a minute to really fall asleep properly, but after that it was great. I feel much more awake now.”

“I’m glad.” 

Lucy examined my face, frowning. “You haven’t slept properly for a while, have you?” The bags under my eyes must have given me away.

“No. I’ve had too much to think about.” Code for ‘no, because every time I close my eyes, I see _that place_ again’.

Lucy seemed to understand. “Want to talk about any of it?” It was a simple invitation, no pressure attached; an expression of support.

I thought about it for a moment, but the answer was always going to be yes. Lucy was the only person I could talk to who’d really understand. “I still can’t believe what we saw. Part of me thinks I must have gone mad. I’m not mad, am I?”

“Barking. But that’s hardly a recent development, is it?” We shared a moment of laughter that I hadn’t known I’d needed; it defused the situation a little, reminded me to breathe. Still smiling but voice somber, she picked up. “I was there too, Lockwood, and I know what you mean. There were a whole host of reasons why that place was disturbing. For me, the worst thing was the silence. My Listening is good enough that I almost _always_ hear at least a little bit when I’m near a ghost. Even the really weak type ones repeat noises or phrases. That place, though?” Lucy shivered. “The only noise there was the noise we brought with us. It felt so unnatural.”

I wasn’t a Listener, so the silence wasn’t what had caught my attention; ghosts were almost always silent for me anyway. Now that I thought of it though, Lucy was right; the silence was just another reason to hate that cold, dead place. “For me, the worst part was how slow my mind was. It got worse the longer we were there. Looking back on my thought process that night feels like watching someone trying to wade through corn syrup. It scares me to think that without you, I probably wouldn’t have realized what was going on in time.”

Lucy blushed. “It was a team effort, Lockwood. I don’t think either of us would have made it out of there alone. And speaking of things that saved our lives—“ Lucy patted her backpack where it lay on the seat next to her, and a faint green glow emanated from the flap. “We owe him one, you know. At the end, when we couldn’t find the chain to get back, he pointed the way. Saved our lives.”

“Can he hear us right now?”

“No, the valve is closed. He’s already insufferable. Can you imagine how much worse he’d be if he heard me saying that?” Lucy rolled her eyes.

I nodded vaguely, but truthfully I hadn’t had nearly as much experience with the skull as she had. I knew it was a vile, perverse thing, but most of what it said never made its way past Lucy. The rest of us were grateful for her sifting through its insulting nonsense to pass on the few bits of information that were actually useful.

“Why’d he save us? I thought he’d have been thrilled to be rid of us.”

“That’s only half true. He’d probably love it if you kicked the bucket. Me, though? I’m his only link to the living world.” Seeing me shoot a disdainful look in the skull’s direction, Lucy backtracked. “Really though, he has a vested interest in your wellbeing too, since he knows exactly what I’d do to him if he intentionally did anything that led to your death.” Lucy explained it all casually, like the psychology and priorities of murderous type threes was a totally normal topic of everyday conversation.

“Well, whatever the reason, I’m glad he decided to save us. I still wouldn’t trust him farther than I can throw him though.” I wrinkled my nose.

Lucy laughed. “I wouldn’t either. He’s always suggesting unorthodox ways to murder anyone who gets in our way. I don’t think he actually _knows_ how to solve problems without killing people.”

“That was probably his standard approach in life, too. I’ll bet that’s got something to do with why he ended up decapitated in a sewer.”

We spent the next couple of minutes laughing and theorizing about how many of his suggested means of murder the skull had actually tried in life.

Lucy put a temporary pause on our conversation. “Could you watch my stuff for a minute? I need a restroom.” 

“Of course.” Lucy got up and headed down the train corridor. Once she was out of sight, I looked around to make sure nobody was within earshot. What I was about to do went against my better judgment, but I felt like I should do it anyway. Springing to my feet, I grabbed the skull’s jar out of Lucy’s bag, turned the valve, and spoke in a hushed voice.

“Lucy told me what you did the other night. Thank you for saving us. Or, well, for saving Lucy, anyway. I know you’d love to be rid of me, so me making it out alive too was probably a real disappointment for you.” The skull’s expression (the only reply it could give me, given my lack of psychic Hearing) was typically disgusting and irreverent, but its reaction was just a little too slow. Maybe its heart wasn’t quite in it this time.

“Anyway, I’ll get to the point here—mind, if you ever tell Lucy what I’m about to say, I’ll deny it. Not only that, but I’ll find you, bury you in cement, and throw you in the deepest part of the Thames. You’ll be alone until the cement erodes, so probably at least a couple hundred years; I’ll make sure it’s extra thick.” If looks could kill, the unbridled hatred in the skull’s eyes in that moment would have vaporized everyone on the train. At least I knew I had its attention.

I continued, even quieter than before. “I know you feel something approximating concern for Lucy’s welfare, even if it’s just because you like having someone to talk to. If anything ever happens and I can’t be around to protect her anymore, you look out for her, all right?” I was surprised to see all traces of resentment disappear from the apparition; in fact, the ghost’s expression was solemn. No mouthing of vulgar curses, no disgusting contortions; just straight lips, eye contact, and an almost imperceptible nod. Good. Without further ado, I shut the valve and stowed the jar back in Lucy’s bag. 

The insanity of what I’d just done hit me like a lead pipe to the brain, and I spent the next minute or so before Lucy returned telling myself to take deep breaths and just act normal.

When Lucy slid back into her seat, I casually picked up our conversation where we’d left off, trying to sound cool. “So, did I hear you right earlier? Did the skull seriously try to convince you to turn a coat hanger into a garrote?”

Lucy:

Safely back at Portland Row, we’d eaten an improvised meal of cereal and toast, and then we each went our separate ways to get cleaned up and rest. I’d taken a quick shower—quicker than I’d intended actually, since George had wasted no time in stealing most of the hot water—and was just tidying up my little attic room. This, too, was thanks to George, since he’d left rather a lot of (hopefully clean) underwear on my floor. The skull in the jar, now situated in its usual perch on my windowsill, spoke as I moved George’s leftover articles of clothing into a basket.

_“You’ll never guess what Lockwood told me on the train today.”_

I raised an eyebrow. Lockwood made no secret of the distrust and disdain he felt toward _every_ visitor. The skull had its useful moments, to be sure, but Lockwood hated it just the same as all the rest. My reply was skeptical. “You’re telling me he actually talked to _you_? Sounds like a real flight of fancy to me.”

 _“Actually, it’s true. He told me how he_ really _feels about you.”_ The skull’s face contorted, tongue lolling out in a gag-inducing configuration heretofore unseen.

I froze for a second before I saw the skull’s expression. Then I smirked at it, head tilted and eyebrows raised. “Ooh, how original,” I snarked, my sarcasm dialed up to ten. “Might work better if you didn’t try to provoke me basically the same way every other day.”

 _“Well, my existence is boring. Can’t blame me for trying to spice it up a little, hm?”_ The face in the jar was now spinning around, continually building up speed, until each feature was a blur stretched by the velocity of its rotation.

I chuckled. “Honestly, if you didn’t, I’d think something was really wrong.”

The skull spun slowly to a halt. I put the last of George’s things in my basket and turned around to take the lot downstairs, when the skull spoke again, this time sounding shockingly genuine.

_“Lockwood really did talk to me. You’d run off somewhere for a minute. He thanked me for showing you both the way back from the Other Side.”_

I turned around. The skull was facing out the window, looking over the neighborhood. This time, I knew it wasn’t lying. I was surprised to hear that Lockwood had actually spoken to the skull, yes, but what really got me was the skull’s reaction. Caught off-guard, it took me a few seconds to respond.

I dropped the basket on my bed and walked over to the window. “That’s good, isn’t it? I think maybe he doesn’t resent you quite so much anymore, like he does all the other visitors.”

 _“Yeah, maybe. Not that_ I _care.”_

I rest my elbows on the narrow sill as best as I could and turned to look at the skull. He was looking oddly somber, still staring out at nothing in particular. There were a couple of kids playing in one of the yards across the street, and he didn’t even bother putting on any disfigurements when they looked in the direction of our house. Now _that_ was out of character for him. And then it hit me.

I made no effort to hide my smirk and the smugness in my voice. “No, I’m sure you don’t. But if I didn’t know better, I’d say maybe you’re finding that you don’t hate _him_ so much anymore either.”

 _“Don’t fool yourself. He’s still a mopey, self-absorbed prat.”_ But the skull’s insults didn’t have the same vitriol they’d always had before. 

By this point, I was laughing so hard that my ribs hurt. “You’ve gone soft!”

The skull rolled its bug eyes. _“Let me out of this jar and I’ll show you just how soft I’ve gone, Carlyle.”_

Chuckling, I turned back to pick up the basket again. “Not a chance! You’ll just have to content yourself with _imagining_ murdering us. If your tender heart can bear such thoughts, that is!”

The skull didn't dignify me with a response, so I smirked as I made my way down the stairs and dropped the basket of George’s clothes in front of his door. I decided to leave the skull to his musings and headed to find a good book to read in the library. If nothing else, my life and the people in it were never boring, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.


End file.
